Decision and Destiny

by DeVa Gantt

  “All I knew was, one day we were planning our wedding, and the next, Colette was breaking the banns. She wanted nothing more to do with me. At first, she was diplomatic, telling me she had grown fond of me, that she didn’t want to hurt me, that the charade had gone on for too long. She had been out to catch a rich husband, and when Paul didn’t fit the bill, she had turned to me. She had to think of her family, her crippled brother, in particular. His medical bills were mounting, and she had planned to send her mother home with an allowance to pay them. But when it became clear my father controlled the purse strings, she had turned her sights on him. I begged her not to sacrifice our love. I told her I would work harder; I could provide for all of them. She shook her head and told me it wasn’t enough. She needed the money now. When I asked her how she could throw our love away, she broke down and cried. When I tried to embrace her, to reason with her, she turned away. She swore she’d never loved me. I became furious, though I knew her words were ludicrous. I threatened to tell my father she was a tramp—a sly, conniving whore. But she only laughed, saying, ‘He knows what I am, and he doesn’t care. He wants me anyway!’

  “I ran from the house, and I didn’t stop. I stumbled over my own two feet with that last vision of Colette, her eyes swollen from crying, swearing she didn’t love me, had never loved me. I boarded the ship that was in port and awaited its departure. Even then, a part of me wanted to go back, to hold her and shake the lies from her, certain she wouldn’t have cried if the lies were true! But another part of me was crushed, so I didn’t go back, and I swore I’d never return to Charmantes. I’d forget her as easily as she could me.

  “I went to Virginia and took to running my father’s business there, determined to gain independence from the damned fortune that had always kept me under his thumb and had now ruined my life. But in the months I was there, I was consumed with anger and hatred. I hated her mother, even her brother. I hated my father for interfering, even though I concluded he’d married her to save me from the mistake he had maintained I was making—saddling myself with a money-grubbing wife. But mostly, I hated myself for still wanting her, loving her, my self-loathing paramount only to my hatred for her. I was not very different from my father at that time. Many nights, I raped her in my dreams, driven by one single desire: to inflict pain on those who had hurt me, pain upon Colette, and pain upon my father. So, I broke my vow and returned.

  “He and Colette had been married less than a year, and she was heavy with child, close to delivering. She greeted me cordially, as if I were a long-lost brother, as if nothing had ever happened, as if we were one big, happy family—my father included. I wanted to vomit. But they dropped that charade once they realized I wasn’t about to accept the cozy life they were now living. For a week, not one word passed between us, but my hatred continued to fester. Then, one night, I cornered her in the drawing room, and we had it out. I enjoyed making her cry, was even more satisfied when my father barged in. We would have come to blows, but Colette collapsed onto the sofa, and he ran to her. She was in labor.

  “I left for Virginia right away, unaware she had delivered twins, and didn’t go back for four years. When I did, it was obvious something had changed between them. My father’s foul moods were worse, and Colette rarely smiled. At first I gloated over her sadness; she was getting what she deserved. I decided to spend time with the twins. They were sweet and innocent, and winning them over was easy. More important, here was an opportunity to be cruel to their mother. I’d ignore her completely, exclude her from excursions I planned with the girls, and when my father put a stop to that, I convinced Yvette and Jeannette their mother was responsible. Colette knew what I was doing, but she never turned them against me. It made me angrier. I wanted her to regret she had chosen my father’s fortune. I invited women to the house and openly flirted with them. She disapproved, but never said a word. After a time, I grew disgusted with the game. Then, one morning—” he inhaled deeply, held the breath for a moment, released it “—I left. A little distance and time, and I’d get on with my life. I was wrong. When I got back to the States, I couldn’t stop thinking about her. I realized she was more miserable than I was. I remembered our happy times in France, her radiant smile that could light up a room. My father had robbed her of that, and it wasn’t fair. And so, I went back again.

  “My father had begun developing Espoir. He was seldom on Charmantes that summer. The girls’ enthusiasm threw us together, and it was easy to pretend he didn’t exist. I fell in love again, this time with a very different woman. As the weeks went by, instinct told me she loved me still. Her misplaced sense of responsibility had gotten us into this mess, and although she tried time and again to shift any blame away from my father, how I hated him for it. I knew he could have helped her family without demanding payment in return. If he loved me, that’s what he would have done. But no, he didn’t want me to benefit from his charity. Instead, he greedily enjoyed the pleasures his money could buy, making Colette his whore as easily as he set me aside. Their marriage was a sham.

  “When Colette told me she was carrying my child, I pleaded with her to leave him. I’d acquired my own fortune. We could go to New York, where nobody would know about the past. But my father denied her custody of the girls, and she refused to desert them. That led to a vicious row. My father and I said things to each other that can never be forgiven. I vaguely remember him collapsing, and still, I shouted at him. Then Colette was screaming at me, demanding I leave, and Paul was there, pulling me out of the room…

  “I loved her, Charmaine, will always love her. Now, after all these years, I know the truth: Colette wasn’t a mercenary, and she wasn’t a saint. She married my father because she was humiliated, and she stayed with him because of the girls and her guilt. He exploited those emotions, but she never loved him.”

  John faced her, his eyes fierce. “You know the rest,” he murmured, his voice suddenly raspy. “She refused to leave him—to ever leave him. When I realized he wasn’t going to die, I went back to Virginia, alone.” He turned back to the French doors. “No longer will I be haunted by the image of her kneeling before him begging his forgiveness. I finally know the truth. She loved me.”

  Frederic gave Jeannette one last squeeze, and the girls left him. His gaze lifted to Paul. “See they get back to the nursery,” he directed. “Perhaps Rose could look in on them if Miss Ryan is not there.”

  Paul nodded. “I’m sorry about this, Father. I tried to calm Yvette before she went running in search of John. You’re certain you’re all right?”

  “Yes, I’m fine. You can send Agatha in now.”

  Agatha drew a chair even with her husband. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I know I caused all of that.”

  Surprised, Frederic scrutinized her expression, looking for a flaw in the genuine contrition he heard in her voice. “Why did you tell Miss Ryan I was sending the girls to a boarding school?”

  “We did discuss it,” she replied evenly. She studied the hands in her lap, her long fingers rotating her wedding band thoughtfully. “I know. Nothing was decided, and I should have held my tongue. But Miss Ryan can be quite insolent, and I lashed out imprudently. I’m sorry.”

  “And John—you made certain he heard the same tale.”

  Agatha squared her shoulders. “When has he believed anything I’ve said?”

  Frederic was given pause. Agatha was right. Sadly, he realized his son had been looking for an excuse to lambaste him; doing so in front of the children’s governess was vindictive, at best.

  Before he could think about it, Agatha was speaking again. “I’ve been fretting over what I said to you this morning, Frederic. I was wrong, terribly wrong, to say what I did. You’ve been hurt by so many of your loved ones, and I ache with the knowledge I have gathered with them.”

  “Agatha—please,” he beseeched, warding off the sympathy she seemed wont to bestow. “The funeral will be in less than an hour’s time, and I need a moment’s peace before that ordeal b
egins.”

  “As you wish, my dearest, as you wish.” She departed his company, uncertain as to the outcome of the morning’s row.

  Chapter 9

  Friday, October 13, 1837

  CHARMAINE woke with a start and sat upright in Pierre’s bed. Someone was crying. She stood and crossed the room, settling next to Jeannette who was moaning in her sleep. “Wake up, sweetheart. You’re having a bad dream.”

  Slowly, the girl surfaced from the dregs of a disturbing slumber. “Oh, Mademoiselle Charmaine,” she whimpered. “We were in the fishing boat with Johnny. It started to rock and—and Pierre fell out! But then he started to swim. I think he was all right.” She groaned woefully. “Oh, why couldn’t that have really happened? I miss him so much!”

  “I know, sweetheart, I know,” Charmaine consoled. “But he’s with your mama now. She’s watching over him, and she’s no longer alone.”

  Charmaine cuddled the distraught child, stroking back her hair until her breathing grew regular. When she was certain Jeannette slept, she eased her head back onto the pillow, drew the thin coverlet over her, and kissed her cheek.

  Standing, she stepped out onto the balcony, happy to find it had stopped raining. She breathed deeply, drinking in the night air that carried the wisps of hair off her neck and eased the pain in her breast. Her moment’s reprieve was swiftly stolen; she hung her head and choked on the tears she fought to subdue.

  Just one week ago, they were living in paradise. One week ago today, she and John, the twins and Pierre had traveled to the lake nestled in a hidden forest and passed a wondrous day together. One week ago tonight, that flawless week came to a jarring end when cries from the front lawn ruptured her sleep, and Yvette tore into the house. Now, one week later, Charmaine could almost laugh with the insanity of it. This tragedy over a silly game of cards!

  At least it was behind her. Pierre had been buried yesterday, a brilliant day that mocked all that had transpired earlier that morning: the confrontations and revelations, the lies and the truths. The breeze had been mild, the sun’s rays strong, the day clear and bright, full of mendacious promise. John’s eyes had been as dry as the day had been splendid, and that had been a lie as well.

  So many lies…

  Frederic had also made the journey from chapel to burial ground, one arm around Jeannette’s delicate shoulders, the other hand clasping his cane as the entourage escorted the small coffin to its final resting place next to Colette’s grave.

  Yvette had attempted to console John, but he remained aloof, and after a while, she moved to Charmaine instead, head bowed, sniffing back her tears.

  Everyone from the manor had been there, even Rose and George this time. The latter clasped John’s shoulder supportively, remaining with him to the end, watching as the overturned earth was shoveled onto the small pine box, his arm quickening when Jeannette stepped forward and placed Pierre’s stuffed lamb on top of the mound.

  Not once did father or son look each other’s way, and no sooner had the company arrived home, the clouds rolled in and the skies opened up, shedding the tears the two men refused to weep. The remainder of the day had passed in solemn misery. Today had been no better.

  Charmaine wiped her tears away. She should retire to her own room, but she had no desire to sleep in the bed in which Pierre had died. Sooner or later she must, but not tonight.

  A sound from the end of the balcony drew her round. She was surprised to find Paul there. He strolled closer, standing before her now. She had not had a moment alone with him since finding him asleep in the armchair just yesterday morning. But that was an eternity ago.

  She read the sorrow in his eyes, just now realizing the depth of his grief.

  “It is very late,” he whispered. “Are you having trouble sleeping?”

  “Any sleep I’ve had has been fragmented and disturbing,” she replied. “I keep hoping I’ll become too tired to think and…”

  Her words dropped off as Paul gathered her in his arms. She grabbed hold of him, buried her face in his chest and willed herself not to cry. He stroked her hair and caressed her back. When the tears did not come, he squeezed her tightly. “Go ahead and cry, Charmaine,” he encouraged. “You’ve been strong for so many others. Let me be strong for you.”

  They came in a deluge.

  Paul battled his own anguish, taking solace from the feel of her in his arms. “I wanted to be there for you yesterday,” he rasped.

  “I know you did,” she whimpered weakly, her tears still effusive, face pressed firmly to his shirtfront, unwilling to pull away.

  “We’re going to get through this. There will be happy days again.”

  “I pray God you’re right, Paul, because I don’t know how I’m going to go on without him. I miss him so much already.”

  “You will, Charmaine, I promise you will.”

  They remained entwined for some time. When her pain subsided, she stepped slightly away, but Paul leaned back into the balustrade and drew her next to him, his arm resting possessively around her shoulders.

  “Perhaps we can do something with the girls tomorrow,” he offered. “Perhaps a ride into town together.”

  Charmaine hugged him closer, her cheek resting upon his chest, conveying how much she appreciated his concern.

  Much later, he retreated to his rooms. It had begun to rain again. Brushing his lips across hers, he bade her goodnight. Charmaine watched him go.

  Entering her own chamber, she strode to the bed, tore back the blanket, and climbed in. It was a long while before she slept, but as she hugged her pillow, she conjured the security of Paul’s embrace, and her eyes grew heavy.

  Saturday, October 14, 1837

  If you want to believe the worst about me, you continue to do so, Frederic… Frederic awoke with a start. He’d been arguing with Colette, her eyes flashing fire at him, so much like those first few weeks of their marriage. And yet, her words were not of long ago. They had been spoken to him recently, only a month before her death.

  He closed his eyes again, hoping to recapture his dream. But as the minutes ticked by and sleep eluded him, he rose from the bed.

  Dawn was upon the island, and although the French doors faced north, the early morning sun shone through the rain-spattered panes, spraying a spectrum of colorful dots across the morbid room. Frederic slumped into the armchair and stared at the pinpoints, their intense brightness blinding. Still he contemplated them; if he stared long enough, everything became black and white.

  He was bored of this room, weary of his prolonged internment. He thought of John, his son, and a feeling welled up inside him, a feeling he had only begun to acknowledge. His eyes blurred with the realization he loved his estranged son, loved him intensely. More than that, Frederic admired him. For Frederic, it had been so much easier to be angry than sad, cruel than kind. And so, he had allowed jealousy and pain to keep him away from the one precious thing that could heal him: his own flesh and blood. But unlike him, John had borne life’s wounds, accepted the suffering. He hadn’t passed his cross onto an easy victim. And, for all his anger and hurt, even his mistakes, John could live with his decisions, live with himself.

  Frederic bowed his head. When had he become such a pathetic fool? There would be no forgiveness, hadn’t John said so? But then, why should there be?

  Pierre was dead, and the cold truth pierced like a knife. Pierre is dead because of your hatred for me. Frederic had never considered the far-reaching consequences of his obstinate bitterness, never imagined it could bring such ruin down about him. Had he become so depraved he would allow the destruction of his own family, or worse yet, the death of an innocent three-year-old? Now he had to face it. He’d betrayed Elizabeth, John, and Colette.

  Colette…He had misjudged her from the outset. When she arrived on the island at the age of seventeen, her delicate beauty took his breath away. More disturbing was her demeanor—something in her manner of speech and behavior that constantly reminded him of Elizabeth, an attraction
that grew stronger and more difficult to suppress each day.

  Colette’s motives were equally disconcerting. Although John was obviously smitten, Frederic grew wary. First, there was her mother. He read the woman quickly, the worry of looming poverty in her eyes. Then there was Paul, who’d been dropped as a suitor when Colette learned John was the legitimate heir to the Duvoisin fortune. And lastly, there was Colette herself, born and bred in decadent France. Frederic had experienced its depravity firsthand, was certain this young lady could teach his son a thing or two, a supposition reinforced by a few saucy conversations he’d overheard. She’d even gone so far as to flirt with him. So, he had serious doubts about her innocence, concluding her purported virtue was merely a hook to reel John into marriage. She wasn’t about to give up her body without a ring on her finger and money in the bank. Clearly, this was a near-destitute family capitalizing on an unprecedented opportunity to mitigate their woe.

  As for John, he didn’t object to his son sewing his wild oats with her, but Frederic felt he was far too young and undisciplined for marriage. Unlike his industrious brother, John was hardly the model student at university. With the exception of his music studies, John just did not have the patience to sit through long lectures, nor the interest in doing the work to make his grades. Frederic had received numerous letters from the university complaining of John’s lackadaisical attitude and disruptive presence in class. Few instructors were willing to have him in their lectures, as John was always bent on challenging their assertions or, once he had homed in on their flaws, humiliating them in front of the other students, who would laugh uproariously at his jokes. When it became clear the Sorbonne was not about to spurn the Duvoisin money, the professors resorted to giving John passing marks just to avoid another semester of his grating presence. Since university had not settled him down, Frederic felt John needed hard work and worldly experience before he married.